


Just You

by oh_johnny



Category: The Beatles
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-26
Updated: 2015-12-26
Packaged: 2018-05-09 14:25:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,544
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5543213
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oh_johnny/pseuds/oh_johnny
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What and who were those songs written for, anyway?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Just You

**Author's Note:**

> This is a repost of a fic which originally appeared in the lj comms johnheartpaul and beatlesslash.

“You wanna try?”

“What? Now?”

“Yeah. You wanna?”

“Jesus, Paul, how much have you smoked?”

“Enough. You wanna?”

“You’re going to keep after me until I do, aren’t you?”

“Yeah. Well, no, if you don’t want to we won’t. But I want to. To try, you know. To see. What it’s like. Nobody will ever know.”

“Hah! You’ll be running off to tell George the minute you’re done.”

“I won’t, John, I promise.”

“Yeah. Yeah, okay.”

“Really?”

“Yeah.”

“Now?”

“Yeah, before I come to me senses.”

Paul advanced on John then, closing the gap between them. He couldn’t believe John had actually agreed to this, had agreed to letting Paul kiss him. They’d spent part of the day with a group of friends of Brian’s and curiosity had got the better of Paul, enough so he’d blurted out to John that he’d like to try kissing him, just to see.

John stood his ground, watching Paul advance. He was grinning to himself, wondering what the hell he’d got himself into but chalking it up to another of those writerly experiences that he could use one day. And, really, if he was going to kiss (no – get kissed by, he corrected himself) a bloke, then Paul wasn’t a bad choice. At least he was fairly sure Paul wouldn’t go blabbing about it to everyone he saw.

They stood for a second or two, face to face, eye to eye, breathing each other. Then Paul leaned in and brushed his lips over John’s. Leaning back he looked at John, smiled, and did it again, this time holding the kiss for longer. He ran his tongue over John’s lips, parting them. John opened his mouth slightly, allowing Paul entrance. Their tongues met, strange tastes mingling, sliding over each other.

Their arms came up, bodies moving closer, with no conscious thought on either part. John, overcome for a moment by the scent of Paul, the cologne, the pot, the tobacco, the earthy smell that underlay them all, broke the kiss and moved his mouth to Paul’s neck, nibbling and licking there.

He was brought abruptly back to his senses when he heard his name whispered in his ear. He pulled back from Paul, stepping away, not meeting his eyes. Struggling to maintain his composure, unwilling to let Paul see how the kiss had affected him, he reached for a cigarette and lit it.

He took a deep drag, gave Paul a look and said, as casually as he could, “Always knew you’d react just like a bird. Going all soft on me because of one meaningless little kiss. Bloody typical.”

Paul, stunned, stared at John for a minute, then turned on his heel and fled, getting out of the flat as quickly as he could, leaving his jacket behind in his hurry.

John maintained his pose until the door closed behind Paul, then slumped back against the wall, eyes closed. He could feel the pressure of Paul’s lips on his, could taste and smell him, was appalled that the whole episode didn’t disgust him. Was appalled at his body’s response. Was, above all, appalled at what he’d said. He poured himself a drink and sat in the dark, smoking, holding Paul’s jacket, occasionally lifting it up to smell, reliving that kiss, wondering how it might have gone if he’d just shut his stupid mouth.

\-------------------

They were in the middle of recording their newest album and had to be at the studio the next day. Paul was already there when John arrived. He tossed Paul’s jacket over to him without comment, then went to set up with his guitar. Paul grunted as he grabbed his jacket, then turned back to the paper he was writing on, scribbling down some words. George and Ringo had been arguing over the football scores, but stopped as John came in, settling down at their instruments, ready to work. 

“What you writing, Paul?” asked George.

“Nothing, really. Nothing yet, anyway. Just something that occurred to me last night..”

John looked up sharply at that but said nothing.

“C’mon then,” said Ringo, “let’s hear it. We still need a song. Maybe it’s good.”

“Yeah. Maybe,” acknowledged Paul, turning around and picking up his acoustic. “Give it a listen and see.”

He started to pick out the tune (“Not really done with this yet”} and hum. The words came slowly, softly, half-formed as they were.

“La la la la-la  
Where did you go?  
I thought I knew you  
What did I know?”

“Then it changes a bit…”

“You don’t look different  
But you have changed  
Something something something  
It’s not the same.”

“Oh, that’s got something there, absolutely,” said George. “Whaddaya think, John?”

John shrugged, “Yeah, I guess. Maybe for the next one. Not really ready, is it?”

Paul shrugged also, “Yeah. Just like I said, something that came to me last night.”

John met Paul’s eyes then, looking to see what Paul was thinking. He knew the song was directed at him – they’d both always found it easier to communicate in song than any other way – but he couldn’t tell if Paul was mad, or full of regret, or what. Looking at him didn’t help – Paul, master of the public relations face, wasn’t letting his emotions out today.

“Okay,” he said after a moment, “Let’s just do the stuff we were going to do today. The rest we can worry about some other time.”

With that they turned back to the business of the day – the final recording of “Run For Your Life”, laying down tracks for songs to be overdubbed later in the week, working at this stage in their career like a well-oiled machine. 

When they had done all they could for the day John and Paul stayed behind while the others left. When the door closed behind Geoff they turned to look at each other.

“So,” said John.

“So.”

“That song’s pretty harsh, don’t you think?”

“No.”

“No? That’s all? Just no?”

“Yeah. No.”

“Jesus, Paul. You can be such a prick.”

“Me? _You’re_ calling _me_ a prick? That’s rich, that is.”

“Come off it Paul. I didn’t mean anything. You know me, it was just a joke.”

“Some fucking joke. Don’t tell me that you didn’t feel something in that kiss, John. Don’t tell me it was meaningless. You don’t want it to happen again, that’s fair enough. But don’t fucking lie to me.”

“So, what? So, yeah, I felt something. Big fucking deal. I’m not queer, Paul. Just because my body responded to you, just because I was stoned and maybe got a little carried away, doesn’t mean I’m queer.”

Paul studied John for a minute.

“Is that what it is?” he asked, quietly, “You think we’re queer because we liked that?”

John looked at the floor, not answering.

Paul began to laugh. John looked up at him under drawn brows, hands curling into fists.

“What are you laughing at?”

“You, you git. Of course we’re not fucking queer. You think I want to do that with some other bloke? You think I’m heading out tonight to find some ass-jockey to make me his bitch? You think I imagine myself doing someone else? George, maybe, or Rings? No John. No one else. Just…”

“Just what?”

“Nothing.”

“What, Paul?”

“No. Never mind. Just, are we okay?”

“That’s not what you were going to say.”

“So now you read minds?”

“Yours, yes. I’ve always been able to read yours.”

“Oh really. Fine. What am I thinking right now?”

John stood and looked at Paul for a minute, then smiled, slowly. He moved towards Paul, edging him back against the studio wall. When Paul tried to use his hands to push John away, John captured them, holding them up over Paul’s head. When he could push Paul back no further he stopped and looked at him again.

“Just what, Paul? Just…me, Paul? Just you and me? No one else? No one else would understand, would they, Paul? No one else would know what we have. No one else would believe you weren’t queer. I do, Paul. I know. I believe. So, just me, Paul?”

Paul nodded, slowly, eyes sliding away from John. 

John leaned in against Paul’s body, mouth against Paul’s ear. 

“Just me, Paul. And just you. I don’t want to do this with anyone else, Paul. But I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you. I want you, Paul. I want this. I want us. Okay?”

Paul nodded and whispered assent.

John let go of Paul’s arms, and stroked his face gently.

“You and me, Paul, yeah?”

“Yeah.”

\----------------------

A week later they lay down a new track, one John had brought in just that day. He maintained it was one he’d written weeks before, riding on the bus around Liverpool reflecting on his life.

They all thought Cynthia would be thrilled, even as they wondered why John would write a song like that for her, their marriage appearing increasingly unstable. 

Whoever it was for, though, the emotion in John’s voice as he sang was clear. Whoever this love was, when John sang that he loved her more than all those friends and lovers who’d gone before, there was no doubt that he did.

Paul couldn’t stop grinning all day.


End file.
